


Post Match: 2010/2011

by justkisa



Category: Football RPF, MCFC RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-01
Updated: 2012-07-01
Packaged: 2017-11-08 23:14:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/448630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justkisa/pseuds/justkisa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three wins, one loss, David Silva and Manchester City.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sunday 11 July 2010 | 2010 FIFA World Cup Final | Netherlands 0 - 1 Spain

**Author's Note:**

> **NOTE:** This story has been edited to remove the chapter that heavily featured Adam Johnson as a character. I have recently taken down many of my stories which feature him as a character. For an explanation go [here](http://justkisa.tumblr.com/post/139054037258/adam-johnson). However, please note, the remaining chapters do contain brief appearances by him.

_Sunday 11 July 2010 | 2010 FIFA World Cup Final | Netherlands 0 - 1 Spain_

Nigel stays on his feet and fights. That’s what he does, that’s who he is. He’s not a quitter or a shirker. He stays on his feet. He runs, he fights, he tackles and, if he gets knocked down, he gets back up and does it all again. For his country, for his club, that’s what he does, that’s how he is. It’s the only way he knows how to be.“Give your all,” his mother says,“fight hard for what you want or just don’t bother.” So Nigel does, he stays on his feet and he fights.

When the whistle blows, they’re still 1-0 down and Nigel realizes that’s it, they’ve lost, the most important game he’s ever played and they’ve lost, well, he sits. He sits right down in the middle of the pitch. There’s nothing left to fight for. There’s no reason to get back up, no reason, any longer, to stay on his feet, so Nigel sits. He just sits. He doesn’t even bother to hold his head up. He puts his head in his hands and stares down at the grass.

Someone touches Nigel’s shoulder and Nigel slowly raises his head. It takes him a moment to identify the Spanish player standing in front of him. It’s Silva--David Silva. Silva who’s coming to City. Silva who’s going to be his teammate. Silva’s smiling at Nigel but he seems just a bit nervous. Maybe, in other circumstances, Silva’s nervousness would compel Nigel to reassure him, to put him at ease. It’s Nigel’s opponents he wants to make nervous not his teammates--never his teammates. Even though they’ve never played together, even though, just moments ago, they were adversaries, now Silva is his teammate and that means something to Nigel. But right at the moment Nigel has nothing left to give, nothing to say that will wipe that nervousness off Silva’s face.

Silva pats Nigel’s shoulder. “I come--” He pauses and looks down at the ground. He fiddles a bit with the collar of Nigel’s jersey. Then Silva looks back up, squares his shoulders, and says, “I want to say, ah, hard luck, also, sorry.” Silva’s accent is so thick that Nigel can barely understand him and there’s a stilted quality to Silva’s words, like he’s reciting something he’s learned but doesn’t understand.

For a moment, Nigel just stares up at him. Silva’s mouth twitches down into a slight frown and he starts to pull his hand away. Nigel reaches up, catches Silva’s hand and holds it against his shoulder. He squeezes Silva’s hand once and says quietly, “Thank-you.”

Silva shifts his fingers under Nigel’s hand. He smiles but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. There’s a trace of sadness in it, like he knows nothing he can say to Nigel will really mean anything. “De nada,” he says. Nigel squeezes Silva’s hand one more time and then lets go.

Silva leaves his hand on Nigel’s shoulder and gently rubs it back and forth. Like he’s trying to soothe Nigel--to comfort him--trying to do with touch what he couldn’t do with words. “Sorry,” he says and rests his hand at the join of Nigel’s neck and shoulder. His fingers are warm on Nigel’s neck. He squeezes briefly and his thumb presses against the notch of Nigel’s collarbone. There’s a strange clarity in the moment--a strange vividness of sensation. Nigel’s intensely aware of the the crisp coldness of the night air and of the way it contrasts starkly with the warmth radiating from Silva’s hand. “Sorry,” Silva says again. He moves his hand again. Just runs it back and forth on Nigel’s shoulder in slow and steady strokes.

“Thank you,” Nigel says. He tries to put as much sincerity as he can manage into those two short words and hopes Silva understands.

“De nada,” Silva says. The reflexive reaction of someone who’s had good manners drilled into them from an early age.

Struck with a sudden, impulsive desire to try and give Silva something--anything--back, Nigel says, “You’re welcome.” Silva stills his hand and frowns slightly. “In English,” Nigel says, “for de nada, you say you’re welcome.”

For a moment Nigel thinks Silva hasn’t understood, then Silva smiles. “You’re welcome.” He says it like a question and looks hopefully at Nigel.

Nigel nods. “Yeah.” Silva’s whole face brightens. It’s almost enough to make Nigel smile. Silva hunches down so that they’re face to face. He reaches out and puts his other hand on Nigel’s other shoulder. For a moment, he just stares at Nigel and smiles. Then he pushes forward and wraps his arms around Nigel. It’s an awkward hug, Silva’s kind of crouching between Nigel’s feet and leaning in and they’re not really touching except for Silva’s arms around Nigel’s shoulders. Silva says something. This time in Spanish.

Nigel reaches up and and hugs Silva back. Silva stumbles a bit, going to his knees between Nigel’s legs. He doesn’t let go of Nigel, though, and he lets Nigel pull him close. There’s certain basic comfort in having Silva wrapped around him, in being pressed so close to the warmth of another person. It’s a fleeting comfort, though, gone as soon as Silva pulls himself back out of Nigel’s embrace. Silva pushes himself back up off his knees and onto his feet. He uses Nigel’s shoulders as leverage.

Nigel supposes he should get up off the ground too but he can’t quite make himself. Instead, Nigel stares up at Silva and waits for him to say goodbye and walk away. But Silva doesn’t leave. He just holds out his hand.

Nigel considers for a moment. It really is time he got up off the ground. Time he got back on his feet so he can face whatever’s coming next head on. He does better on his feet. So Nigel reaches up and takes Silva’s hand. Even dressed for the bench and bundled up against the cold, Silva looks slight, like a stiff breeze might tip him over, but his grip is strong and he pulls Nigel up off the ground like Nigel’s weight is nothing.

After Nigel’s up on his feet, Silva doesn’t let go of Nigel’s hand. Nigel squeezes Silva’s hand. “Thank you.”

Silva nods and squeezes Nigel’s hand once and then drops it. He leans forward and gives Nigel a quick hug. When he pulls back, he leaves his hands on Nigel’s shoulders, he stares straight at Nigel and says, slowly and precisely, “You’re welcome.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Silva did, in fact, seek out de Jong after the end of the World Cup Final. In [this article](http://www.guardian.co.uk/football/2010/aug/14/david-silva-manchester-city) he’s quoted as saying, _“After the final I knew this was going to be a new team-mate of mine so I went looking for him [de Jong], to say hard luck.”_


	2. Wednesday, 2 March 2011 | The FA Cup | Man City 3 - 0 Aston Villa

_Wednesday, 2 March 2011 | The FA Cup | Man City 3 - 0 Aston Villa_

They decide to send Pablo out with Silva to do the interview. Silva looks like he’d really rather not. Someone says, “Don’t worry, Zaba’ll look after you.” Silva nods and smiles. Silva does a lot of that, not as much as he used to, but he still does it a lot.

Pablo reaches over and claps Silva’s shoulder. He says, in Spanish, “Come on, man, let’s get this over with.”

“Okay.” Silva runs a hand through his hair. “Okay.” He looks over at Pablo. His hair is a complete mess. “Let’s go.”

Pablo laughs. “Not before you fix your hair,” he says, trying to make Silva smile, to make him relax a little. He reaches over and tries to smooth down Silva’s hair. “You look ridiculous.”

Silva just frowns at him and reaches up to bat Pablo’s hands away. “Stop it, you’re probably making it worse.”

Pablo tries not to laugh. “I’m not! I’m not, honest. It’s much better now. You’re all ready for the cameras.” He tugs on the bottom of Silva’s shirt. “Come on, no sense in putting it off.”

Silva smiles just a little and says, “Yeah, okay,” as he lets Pablo pull him forward.

Silva’s still smiling when they reach the interviewer. But when the interviewer asks about Silva’s English, Silva’s smile takes a turn for nervous and he gestures awkwardly and nods a bit jerkily. Pablo makes a little comment, deflects the interviewer’s attention towards him and away from Silva. The interviewer laughs and Silva smiles more broadly without the edge of nervousness from a moment ago. When the interviewer turns to Pablo and asks him to help translate, Pablo nods readily and turns his attention away from Silva to listen to the interviewer’s question. The question is nothing special and Pablo dutifully translates it for Silva and then waits so he can translate Silva’s answer.

As Pablo translates Silva’s answer for the interviewer, Silva stares at Pablo, and Pablo can’t quite stop himself from glancing towards him. When Pablo gets to the part about how everyone at the club looks after Silva, Silva smiles and nods a little. Pablo wants to smile back but he just keeps translating.

Afterwards, as they head back to the dressing room, Silva nudges Pablo with his elbow and says, “Thanks.”

“Of course,” Pablo says automatically, “any time, you know that.”

“Yeah,” Silva says, then he adds, his voice soft but intense, “you--you look after me, and--” He pauses then says with serious deliberateness, “Thank-you.”

It’s unexpected and Pablo’s not quite sure how to react. “You--” He stops, starts again. “You are my friend, that’s what friends do for each other, right?”

Silva bumps his shoulder into Pablo’s and gives Pablo an almost shy smile. “Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Pablo echoes absently. Then, looking to move into slightly less awkwardly sentimental territory, he throws his arm around Silva’s shoulders, hauls him close, and says teasingly, “Soon, before you know it, your English will be perfect, not, of course, as perfect as mine and you will be able to do all these by yourself, you won’t need me anymore.”

Silva shrugs and laughs softly. “Maybe--maybe not--” He pauses. “--English, it is very--”

Pablo smiles a little. “You’ll get there, it’s not so bad, really.”

Silva shrugs again. “I guess.” He sounds skeptical. It makes Pablo think of Carlos, who’s been here longer than Pablo but who still needs an interpreter just like Silva.

Pablo’d learned as much English as he could as fast as he could. He’s not Carlos, he doesn’t have what Carlos has to offer--what Silva has to offer. He knows what he has to offer. He knows it’s good enough but it’s different. So, he’d learned fast. He’d had to give himself every advantage, had to make himself noticed in every way that he could, to make himself a solution not a problem.

Pablo gives Silva a little shake. “Just think of what you’ll be able to do once you learn a bit more, interviews--” Silva makes a face. Pablo ignores that and keeps going. “--talk to the fans, make new friends, talk to English girls, all kinds of things.” Silva doesn’t look convinced. Pablo just laughs. “Just imagine, you’ll be able to understand all those horrible jokes that Johnson wastes all his time telling you.”

Silva ducks his head. “I like Adam’s jokes.”

Pablo laughs some more and smacks Silva’s shoulder. “You don’t understand a single one of them.”

Silva just smiles. “I still like them.” It’s Johnson’s overtures of friendship, Pablo knows, that Silva really likes. The way Johnson seeks out his company and involves him in things. The way that Johnson doesn’t seem deterred by the fact that Silva can barely talk to him. These are the things Silva really likes.

Pablo gives Silva’s shoulders a squeeze and says more seriously, “When you learn more, everything, it will be better. Really.” Pablo says when not if deliberately, emphasizing the word just a little.

Silva leans into him. “Do you think so?”

Pablo pats Silva’s shoulder. “I know so.”

Silva laughs a little. “It is pretty good already.”

Before he can think better of it, Pablo asks, “Do you really thinks so?” He can’t quite keep his disbelief from his voice.

Silva nods quickly and smiles. “I do, at first, maybe not. But now, yes. Everything is going well.” He seems like he means it. His smile is bright and open and he sounds, well, happy.

“You don’t--you don’t miss Spain?” Pablo says hesitantly.

Silva shrugs. “Of course I miss it. You miss Argentina, yes?”

Pablo nods. “Yeah, sure.”

“But--but you are okay here?” Silva peeks sideways at him, like he’s a bit nervous about what Pablo will say.

Pablo just smiles. “Yeah, it’s pretty good here.”

“I think so too,” Silva says. He’s still smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Following the Aston Villa match, Zabaleta acted as translator for Silva during a brief post-match interview, you can see it [here](http://www.twitvid.com/2P0KI).


	3. Sunday, 13 March 2011 | The FA Cup | Man City 1 - 0 Reading

_Sunday, 13 March 2011 | The FA Cup | Man City 1 - 0 Reading_

After Micah’s done with his interview, he makes his way back to the dressing room. Just at the turn to the hallway that leads to the dressing room, Micah finds, to his surprise, Silva. Silva’s leaning against the wall, looking down at the floor. Silva must hear Micah coming because, as Micah approaches, Silva looks up. “Hey, Silva, whatcha doing out here?”

Silva looks away for a second. Then he looks back at Micah. “I--I need, one moment, is very--very, um--” He trails off and sort of waves his hands around. “--there--” He points towards the dressing room. “--is very--” He stops again. His frustration is obvious.

Micah has a fair idea what Silva’s trying to get at. “Loud?”

Silva gives Micah a distinctly grateful smile. “Yes, very loud.”

Personally, Micah loves the loud clamor of the dressing room after a win, especially a win like this. They’re going to a FA cup semi-final. At Wembley. Micah still can’t quite believe it. But Silva, Silva is, as far as Micah can tell, a quiet lad--maybe a bit shy. So Micah can sort of--maybe--understand how Silva might want a moment away from all the fuss. But not really, they won--what better time to make a fuss! But Micah doesn’t say anything about that. Instead he says, “You just needed a moment away from all that lot making so much noise, yeah? I get it.”

Silva nods. “Is nice, yes, that we win, but I--” He trails off and shrugs sort of sheepishly.

Micah reaches out and claps Silva on the shoulder. “It’s cool. You just needed a bit of space to breathe, yeah?”

Silva smiles up at him. “Yes, just one moment, ah, alone.”

Micah wonders, for a second, if that’s some sort of subtle hint on Silva’s part for Micah to go. Micah’s not really good at subtle so he just blurts out, “Do you want me to--I could just--” He jerks his thumb towards the dressing room.

Silva’s eyes widen dramatically and he practically trips over his words as he says, “That is not, you not--” He stops. Then he reaches out and touches Micah’s arm, just above Micah’s elbow. “Please, stay, um, if you like to.”

Really, Micah wants to go back into the dressing room, back into the happy clamor of all the lads. But he doesn’t want to just rush off and leave Silva here. Anyway, it’s a just a minute, so why not? “Yeah, yeah okay. Think I will for a minute. Nice to have a bit of quiet.”

Silva smiles. It looks a relieved sort of smile. It’s enough to make Micah think that, in staying, he’s made the right decision. He leans against the wall next to Silva, close enough that their shoulders brush together.

It’s a little awkward. Just standing there in silence with Silva. Micah’s not really a stand around in silence sort of guy. He’s more of a keep talking until someone shuts him up sort of guy. But he can, contrary to popular opinion, keep his mouth shut if he really has to. If Silva wants some peace and quiet, well, Micah can give him that. Part of him really wants to come out and say, “Look mate, you won the World Cup and the fucking Euros before that and after those wins, well, shit must have gone crazy. So how is it that your teammates shouting and hollering in the locker room after a win in a _FA cup quarter-final_ , sends you to hide in the hall.” But he doesn’t say it. He doesn’t say anything.

To be honest, the silence makes Micah a bit jittery. He finds himself fidgeting, bumping into Silva’s shoulder as he does. Micah’s pretty sure this is the first time he’s ever been alone with Silva. Sure he sees Silva all the time. Training, games, traveling, what have you. And they’ve talked a bit here and there. Though, Micah thinks, that, really, just now might have been the longest conversation he’s ever had with Silva. Of course until recently the only people Silva really had conversations with were people who he had a hope of understanding. His English is coming along, though, and he’s started chatting more and with more people. He still sticks pretty close to Tevez or Zaba or Yaya a lot of the time but recently he’s been coming out of his shell a bit.

Micah’s not sure how long they’ve been standing there. To him it feels like a long time but it’s probably not been that long. Micah’s not sure how much more silence he can stand and he’s about to say something when Silva beats him to it. “Was very nice, your goal.”

Micah looks over at Silva. Silva’s smiling at him. Micah bumps his shoulder into Silva’s. “Well, that corner wasn’t so bad either.”

Silva laughs a little. He tilts his head up towards Micah and smiles a little, _yeah I know how good I am_ , smile. Then he says, face straight save for a teasing sort of glint in his eyes, “Yes. Was very good corner.”

It startles a laugh out of Micah. Not what he was expecting. That smile, the way Silva doesn’t blush or say thank you at Micah’s compliment. Not at all what Micah was expecting. Not from Silva, who’s shy and quiet and crazy talented without ever making a fuss about it.

It’s new. Different. And, maybe, it messes with Micah’s mind just a bit. It shouldn’t, though, should it? For all that Micah sees Silva pretty much every day, Micah doesn’t really know Silva. Truthfully, what with the language barrier and Silva’s apparent shyness, Silva’s easier to admire than to know. But maybe this playful, bantering Silva is just who Silva really is behind all the shy smiles and the halting English. Micah kind of likes it. “Oh, you think so?”

Silva gives Micah a look that would be all seriousness except for the fact that the corners of his mouth are curving up, like he’s trying hard not to smile “I think so, yes.” Silva can’t keep up the attempt at seriousness and he’s laughing before he finishes talking.

Micah reaches out and slings an arm around Silva’s shoulders and Silva leans into Micah’s side. Micah gives Silva’s shoulders a squeeze. “What do you say, we give the dressing room a try? Lads should have calmed down a bit.”

Of course, just then, someone, Micah’s pretty sure it’s Joe, yells, “Fucking Wembley,” loud enough that carries into the hall. Silva raises an eyebrow at Micah and Micah concedes, “Okay, maybe they haven’t. But we should go in anyway.”

Silva smiles and says, “Okay,” but he doesn’t move.

Micah tugs on Silva’s shoulders. “C’mon, let’s go.” Silva lets Micah tug him along.

Walking into the dressing room is like walking into a solid wall of noise. Joe’s the closest to the door and when Micah and Silva walk in, he shouts, “Mics--David--there you are,” and comes clattering over. Joe reaches out and puts his hands on Silva’s shoulders, fumbling over Micah’s hand on side and tucking his fingers under Micah’s arm on the other. “David--David, we thought we lost you somewhere, where’d you go?”

Silva just shrugs, dislodging Joe’s hands and, almost, Micah’s arm, from his shoulders. Then he laughs a bit and ducks his head. Joe’s obviously not looking for more of a response than that because he just turns to Micah and says, “Mics, Mics--you found David.”

Micah shakes his head. “Sure mate, whatever you say.” Joe gives Micah a wide, goofy smile then reaches out and pats Micah’s cheek. Then Joe whirls away off into the dizzying clamor of the dressing room.

Joe’s just the first of many who come over and, almost without noticing, Micah loses Silva somewhere in the melee. Micah thinks Tevez came and grabbed him but with all the craziness going down Micah can’t be sure. Just, one moment he had Silva tucked under his arm, and the next moment, Silva was gone.

Micah doesn’t find Silva again until a little while later. The dressing room’s starting to empty out. People are gathering their stuff and calling out goodbyes. Micah’s got all his stuff together and he’s getting ready to walk out of the door when he spots Silva again.

Silva’s sitting in front of his locker. His bag, or, at least, Micah assumes it’s his, is next to him on the bench. The bag’s open but Silva’s not putting anything in it or, it seems, really paying any attention to it. He’s just staring out into the dressing room. Silva has a sort of dazed expression on his face. It’s the one he gets sometimes when everyone’s talking at once around him and he has no hope of following anything that’s going on.

Micah tries to imagine what the dressing room must sound like to Silva, to imagine what it would be like to stand in the middle of a storm of fast flying words in a language you barely understand. It must just sound like a lot of loud incomprehensible noise. No wonder Silva wanted a quiet minute in the hall.

Micah makes his way across the dressing room, toward Silva. He dodges Shaun and Joe who are chasing each other. Or, maybe, Joe’s chasing Shaun. Micah’s not really sure. Patrick tries to smack Micah’s head but Micah ducks away and keeps going. Micah stops right in front of Silva. “Hey.”

Silva looks up. He seems a bit startled. “Richards.”

“You can call me Micah, you know?”

Silva smiles. “Micah.”

Micah’s not sure he’s ever heard his name sound quite like it does with Silva’s accent. It makes him laugh a little.

Silva frowns. “Is not right?”

Micah reaches out and pats Silva’s shoulder. “No. No, it’s fine. Just never heard my name sound quite like that.” Silva smiles a little. Just a tiny amused tilt of his lips. Now that really does make Micah laugh, because the way the lot of them mangle Silva’s name, well, it’s pretty horrible. “We’ll get it right one day, eh, mate?” Silva just shrugs, like he doesn’t quite believe Micah, but he’s still smiling.

Silva reaches up and lightly touches Micah’s wrist. “Thank you, for--for in the--” He stops and scrunches up his face. “--in the--”

“Hall?’ Micah says.

Silva shakes his head a bit. “Hall, yes, thank you.”

“Hey, no problem, mate.” Micah pats Silva’s shoulder. “And, uh, about before, no big deal, all right? Everyone needs a little quiet once and awhile.“

Silva smiles and says teasingly, “Not you.”

Silva’s got him there. “Okay, fine maybe not me. Though it wasn’t so bad. Maybe I’ll try it more often.”

“I will--” Silva pauses. “--I will--what is you say--believe it when I see it?”

Micah laughs. “Hey now, I can be quiet.”

Silva tilts his head to one side. “If you say so.”

Micah claps Silva’s shoulder. “Whatever, mate. I’ll see you ‘round, all right?”

“Yes, okay. Have, ah, have a good night.”

“You too."

When Micah gets to the door, he looks back towards Silva. Silva’s smiling. Micah smiles back and waves, then he turns and walks out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Micah Richards scored the only goal of the Reading game and he scored it from [Silva’s corner](http://www.mcfc.co.uk/citytv/Match-highlights/2011/March/City-v-Reading-60-seconds-highlights).
> 
> 2\. In the [interview](http://www.mcfc.co.uk/citytv/Interviews/2011/March/City-v-Reading-Micah-reaction) Richards gave to cityTV after the game, he talks about all the shouting in the dressing room following the game (and is just generally adorable.)


	4. Sunday, March 20 2011 | Barclay’s Premier League | Chelsea 2 - 0 Man City

_Sunday, March 20 2011 | Barclay’s Premier League | Chelsea 2 - 0 Man City_

Somehow, Fernando misses seeing Silva out on the pitch, Fernando wants to see him but now Fernando has to go find him. He makes his way through the halls until he gets to the away dressing room. One of Silva’s teammates, the keeper--Hart--is standing just outside the door, his hand on the door handle. Hart nods. “Torres.” Fernando nods back. Before Fernando can say anything, Hart says curtly, “Did you want something?” The look on Hart’s face, the tone of his voice, together they make it seem more like a challenge than a question.

“I was--I was looking for Silva.”

Hart looks Fernando up and down. Like he’s deciding something--something about Fernando. It’s not a terribly friendly perusal. Fernando fidgets a little under Hart’s gaze. He forces himself to look at Hart and not down at the floor. Finally, Hart says, “Okay.” Hart pushes open the dressing room door, not all the way, just a little. He turns towards the door blocking Fernando’s view of the dressing room. Still, Fernando can see enough to see someone come up to the open door. “Hey Johno, get David, would you? Someone’s here to see him.”

The unseen Johno, replies, “Sure, yeah.”

Hart steps away from the door and turns back towards Fernando. The door slams shut. Hart tips his head towards Fernando. “David’ll be right out.” Fernando just nods. Hart doesn’t say anything further. He leans against the wall next to the door, crosses his arms over his chest, and stares at Fernando. Fernando looks away.

It’s strange to Fernando, hearing Hart refer to Silva as David. Fernando can’t remember the last time he heard someone call Silva that. The way Hart says David, it’s the English way of saying it. It makes Silva seem like someone else. Someone Fernando’s never met. David.

Fernando hears the door open and looks back. Silva’s there. So is another one of Silva’s teammates. Fernando’s fairly certain his name is Johnson. Johno, wasn’t that what Hart had said earlier? Johnson has his arm around Silva’s shoulders and Silva’s pressed close to his side. Silva looks tired. Actually, Fernando thinks, Silva looks exhausted. Exhausted and utterly defeated. Like he’s given all he has to give, then reached deep down and scraped up some more to give only to find that it isn’t enough.

Hart pushes off the wall and comes to stand at Silva’s other side. The two of them bracket Silva, their stance almost protective. It startles Fernando a bit, seeing Silva sandwiched between the two of them. It just seems strange, wrong somehow. Fernando knows, of course, that now Silva’s a Manchester City player. But, for whatever reason, in Fernando’s mind Silva’s still inexorably linked with Valencia--with his Valencia teammates. Some part of Fernando is still convinced that it should be Marchena or Mata or, even, Villa hovering protectively by Silva’s side. Instead, here Silva is, surrounded by Englishmen. Englishmen who call him David and who seem to think Silva needs protecting from Fernando. Maybe, in other circumstances, Fernando would find it amusing. Silva, never minding how Marchena sometimes hovers, needs less protecting than most people Fernando knows. He certainly doesn’t need protecting from Fernando.

“Fernando,” Silva says, his voice low and flat.

“Hello--”

Hart cuts Fernando off, “Don’t take too long, eh?” Hart’s not talking to Fernando, though, he’s talking to Silva. Hart turns towards Silva. He reaches out and gently ruffles Silva’s hair. It’s clearly meant to be a comforting gesture--a reassuring one. Silva smiles. It’s a tired smile, but, it seems to Fernando, a grateful one. Hart smiles back. “It’ll be time to go soon, yeah?” Silva smiles a bit wider and a bit brighter at that and nods.

Johnson gives Silva’s shoulders a squeeze. Then he slaps Silva’s shoulder and says, “Don’t talk forever, ‘kay?” Silva leans into Johnson’s side for a moment, turning his face into his shoulder and smiling up at Johnson.

Johnson gives Silva’s shoulders another squeeze then he drops his arm and turns away, heading back through the door. Hart follows him. The door slams shut behind them leaving Fernando alone with Silva.

They just stand there for a moment staring at each other. Silva doesn’t seem inclined to say anything. He just watches Fernando. The look on his face is indecipherable.

The silence stretches between them and the longer it goes on the more awkward it gets. Fernando’s really not very good with awkward silences. But he’s not exactly sure what to say to break it so instead he just steps forward and wraps his arms around Silva. At first, Fernando thinks Silva is going to push him away, because, for a moment, Silva just stands, stock still, in Fernando’s arms. Then, just like that, the moment’s gone and Silva wraps his arms around Fernando, pressing close, and mumbling, “Hello,” into Fernando’s chest.

Fernando huffs out a laugh, turning his face into Silva’s hair. He hugs Silva closer. “Hello.”

Fernando pulls back. He leaves his hands on Silva’s shoulders. Silva smiles up at him. This was more what Fernando had in mind when he went to find Silva. Just a chance to see a friend, say hello. He hadn’t really anticipated awkward silences or, for that matter, disapproving Englishmen. “Your teammates, they don’t seem to like me much.”

Silva’s smile drops a little. “What do you mean?”

Fernando shrugs. “They didn’t seem so happy to see me. For a moment, after I asked for you, I thought Hart was just going to tell me to go to hell.”

Silva sighs. “You won Fernando, we--we lost. They are upset. That is all.”

“And you?’ Fernando says, before he can stop himself, “Are you upset with me?”

Silva shrugs. He moves away from Fernando, slipping out from under Fernando’s hands. He doesn’t look at Fernando. “We lost. You won.” It’s not really an answer except, of course, that it is.

Fernando reaches out and touches Silva’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

Silva turns back towards Fernando and Fernando’s hand slips off Silva’s shoulder. Silva’s smiling. It’s not exactly a happy smile. “Sorry that you won?” Fernando opens his mouth thinks better of saying anything and closes it again. Silva makes a short, disbelieving sound and then answers his own question. “No--No, of course you are not. Just like I would not be sorry if we won.” Silva’s voice is sharp--angry. Fernando gets the impression that Silva is angry at himself, not at Fernando, but Fernando can’t be sure.

Silva scrubs his hand through his hair, tugs at it, like he does when he’s frustrated. Then Silva shrugs, the movement of his shoulders short and abrupt. He looks away from Fernando. “But that’s just football, isn’t it, eh Niño?” He seems calmer then before but there’s an edge in his voice. Bitterness, maybe, or something else.

“Yeah. Just football,” says Fernando. He should say more, Fernando thinks, but he can’t think what else to say. Fernando’s out of practice with this, with thinking of Silva as an opponent, someone to defeat or be defeated by. When they, when Liverpool (he has a new they, he has to remember this), lost to City earlier in the season Silva hadn’t played. Fernando hadn’t really had to face this. He’s grown accustomed to them being on the same side--a winning side. He’s lost the words to say to Silva in a situation like this. He’s discarded them as unneeded things.

For the second time, Fernando gives up on words. He reaches out and wraps his hand around Silva’s wrist. He tugs Silva close and wraps his arms around Silva. Fernando might not know what to say to Silva but he can at least offer this. Silva burrows close, burying his face in Fernando’s shoulder and fisting his hands in Fernando’s shirt. They stay that way for a moment, then Silva looks up. He doesn’t make any effort to get out of Fernando’s arms. He just looks up. He still looks exhausted but he doesn’t seem angry anymore, just resigned. Silva smiles, just the barest curving of lips, but it’s still a smile. “It’s good to see you Fernando.”

Fernando pats Silva’s back, “It’s good to see you too.”

Silva smiles a little wider then he lets go of Fernando’s shirt and pushes lightly at Fernando’s chest. “How’re you doing? Everything with--” Silva stops.

Fernando knows what question is coming. He hasn’t talked to Silva since his transfer. Fernando steps back away from Silva. Silva lets him go.

“Your--” Silva starts again but trails off and makes an aborted gesture with his hands. He doesn’t say anything more.

Fernando forces a smile, he doesn’t want to talk about this. Not with Silva. “I’m fine.”

Silva tilts his head to one side. He looks Fernando up and down. Like he’s considering calling Fernando on his bullshit answer. But all Silva says is, “That’s good. The club, your teammates, they are--they are treating you well?”

There are so many things Fernando could say. “Of course.” It’s the truth as far as it goes. Before Silva can say anything, Fernando turns the question around. “How about you, how’s City? Your teammates, they are good to you?”

Silva ducks his head. “Yes--yes, very good.” He smiles, almost to himself. There’s something in Silva’s smile, something Fernando can’t quite-- Silva looks back up, “I should--” He comes forward and gives Fernando a quick hug. “I should--” The dressing room door opens and Silva stops and turns towards the door.

It’s Johnson at the door. “Done, yet?” Johnson’s tone is abrupt and there’s something in his expression as he looks at Fernando and Silva that Fernando can’t quite describe. Whatever it is, it’s there and gone before Fernando can decide what it is. It makes Fernando wonder just what Johnson sees as he looks at them.

Silva turns toward Johnson. “Was just--” Silva pauses. Fernando realizes with a jolt that this is the first time he’s ever heard Silva say anything in English. Silva tips his head toward Fernando. “--was just saying goodbye.”

The expression on Johnson’s face softens a bit and he smiles at Silva. “If you’re done, it’s almost time to go.”

Silva glances back toward Fernando. Fernando smiles and waves. Silva waves back. Then he turns to Johnson. “Done.”

Johnson makes a kind of come here gesture at Silva. “Yeah, okay, come on then.”

Silva goes to Johnson’s side. He doesn’t look back at Fernando.

As soon as Silva reaches Johnson’s side, Johnson reaches out and wraps his arm around Silva’s shoulders, pulling Silva close. Fernando fights the urge to smile at the gesture, at the way Johnson seems to be saying, _ours not yours_ , or, maybe, _mine not yours_. Silva goes to Johnson easily--naturally. Like it’s something he does all the time. Like, maybe, Johnson’s side is a place where he belongs. Fernando never thought he’d see Silva belong anywhere that wasn’t Valencia--that wasn’t Spain. But here Silva is in this entirely new and different place looking like he’s just where he’s supposed to be.

Johnson looks back at Fernando and nods. “Torres.”

Fernando nods back. “Johnson.”

Then Johnson turns around and pushes open the dressing room door. For a second, Fernando can hear the muted clamor of voices. Someone says Silva’s name, says, “David.”

Then the door closes and it’s quiet again. Fernando is alone in the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This game was the first time following Silva’s move to City that Silva and Torres actually played against each other. Silva was an unused substitute when City and Liverpool played in [August 2010](http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport2/hi/football/eng_prem/8929542.stm).


End file.
